


Us and Mrs. Holmes

by ElizabethisjustaKitten



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Christmas dinner fic, Christmas fic, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Mummy Holmes - manipulation extraordinaire, Parentlock, Rosie exist, demi maybe, mary is evil, mummy holmes - Freeform, or something like that, victor trevor is alive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 15:22:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10165880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizabethisjustaKitten/pseuds/ElizabethisjustaKitten
Summary: Marcy Holmes always wanted to be a grandma. And what Mrs Holmes wants, she gets.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, no beta!

The problem with Holmes is, at least one of them got to be a genius. Making other people feel small, stupid and inadequate is a sport they don't even realise they are playing. The same goes for Mrs. Holmes. She is a very pleasant lady to be around, until she is not. That moment of breaking comes upon realisation that despite being quite pleasant and normal, her intellect is far superior to anybody else’s. Maybe even greater than Sherlock's and Mycroft's. 

When John meets mummy Holmes -and that means properly meet, not a quick glance and a smile in the doors- it's Christmas.  He has a wife, baby on its way and a problem he needs to address.  They chat in the kitchen of their fairly normal, almost cosy home. They shake hands with Mr. Holmes senior. 

"Call me Fred," he says. Normal fellow, by any merits ordinary, maybe with a hidden kick for thrills since he married this woman. John considers the parallels for a moment. Despite what all the genius Holmes in the house would say, he is not stupid. Not in this area. 

Then he moves for the elegant woman. 

"Mummy, this is John." Sherlock is coy introducing him, almost sheepish. His shoulders are slouched and he studies his shoes side-stepping nervously. 

"I heard so much about you." She goes for a kiss on both cheeks and that surprises him. 

"Mrs. Holmes, it's so nice-"

"Oh, call me Marcy, please!" She seems cheery and normal, which is a surprise.  Pleasant one at that. A regular woman with hair that is mostly salt now with hints of pepper, eyes wrinkly and smiling in the corners. The only thing hinting she might be the same as her children is a sly smile on her lips and the way she holds herself, nose just a bit higher above everybody else.

"William was-" she starts saying. Sherlock clears his throat. 

"Sherlock was telling me so much about you." She almost sing-songs, squeezing his hands in hers. John feels relaxed in her company. That might be a mistake.

"Did he now?" He asks and by the corner of his eye spots Sherlock smiling his half smile, something shining in his eyes. 

Mary stands back in the door, watching them grimly. John just now notices. She doesn't intrude on the family time. Not once.  It makes John reconsider her place in all of this. They are expecting a baby after all. 

 

~*~

 

Second time John properly meets Marcy Holmes, it's long after. Or not really that long, but it seems like eternity. After the debacle with Magnussen and Mary and all that Moriarty stuff, everything seems like too much for a life time. And  _yet..._

They are leaving for a case. John feels bad, taking case away from London with a toddler in their care. Sherlock calls his mother for assistance and they stop at their home in their way out of town. 

"Hope it's not much trouble," John says, placing half asleep Rosie to her hands.  It's early morning, just after dawn. 

"Nonsense. I was so excited to meet her. Sherlock was sending me photos, you know!" She rocks the child in her arms, settling Rosie against her chest. 

"Was he?" John looks at Sherlock standing behind him, diaper bag in his hand. 

"She insisted." He retorts. Marcy just smirks and John knows in an instant Sherlock is not telling the whole truth here. They have a strange understanding, this woman and him. When it comes to Sherlock, at least. 

The charming thing about Marcy Holmes is, despite her sons being wild geniuses, they both lack what she has aplenty. That is fundamental understanding of humans on emotional level. What John gathered of her, seems that the older Holmes genius might be much more than fluent in cognitive human behaviour which makes her even more dangerous than any of her children. She just might be the smartest and most wicked of them all, he thinks. John rather likes her. 

"Won’t you come in for a cuppa? It's so early, surely you don't need to go just yet." She looks at them innocently, blinking with her big, grandmotherly eyes holding Rosie. But there's a smirk on her lips that tells a different story.

"Sorry, mummy. Need to get going. We will stay for a while after the case." Sherlock says and moves to put the bags into the house.  John can't believe Sherlock let himself be manipulated into visiting his mother that easily. 

"Thank you dear," Mrs. Holmes lovingly touches her sons forearm as he moves past her. They share a smile, which is so bizarre it warms John's heart. 

"I was really glad when you boys called that you need help," she says after Sherlock disappears inside the house. 

"I'm really sorry for the intrusion-" John tries again. 

"Nonsense-" she waves her hand in dismissal. "You and Rosie are like family. You just be good to my Sherlock and I will be here to help."

John nervously shifts his stance. Is she insinuating what he thinks?

"Oh no, I don't think you are a couple, my dear." Mrs. Holmes laughs. Of course she has him deduced before he can even make his mind about it. They aren't a couple,  _right_...

But there's a mischievous gleam in Marcy's eye as she looks at him, smiling with that -what now might be- predatory smile, knowing too much and yet discerning too little. 

"You just take care of him. As you do. That's all I ask." She pleads. How can John ever say no to this woman? 

"We can go!" Sherlock appears in the doors and John relaxes. 

They say their goodbyes then, Marcy kissing him on both cheeks. Rosie cries, but is quickly shushed into lull by the woman now holding her. Marcy seems good with her and John relaxes. They leave, letting the woman that cared for both Sherlock and Mycroft, with John's daughter. Like that could go wrong. 

 

~*~

 

Next time they employ Marcy's help, it's not entirely planed. At least not by John. 

They are in the middle of a big case. Sherlock haven't eaten for two days and John needs his sleep. They are going through some evidence, when Rosie starts screaming. Fourth time that evening, which is weird, because she usually sleeps through her nights. 

"I can't concentrate!" Sherlock yells trough crying Rosie, as John tries to shush her and rock her into sleep in the living room. He flies into his room, slamming the door which makes Rosie cry harder. 

That’s when the bell rings. 

The noise startles Rosie into quiet sniffling into John's jumper, as he makes his way down the steps to open the door.  It's late evening and they are in the middle of a case, so any client right now will be dismissed. 

To John surprise it's not client coming to their doors with night behind their feet. Mrs. Holmes is standing on their curb, reaching for Rosie the moment John opens the door. 

"Marcy..?" John stutters. 

"I was just in the neighbourhood. Mycroft did mentions that maybe you need help?"

John just silently nods and lets her take Rosie. There's a sleek, black limousine behind Marcy, now moving away. One of Mycroft’s, no doubt. 

"Would you... would you like some tea?" Confused John holds the door for her and lets her in. The house a mess, with Mrs. Hudson away on visit to her sister. 

"That would be lovely if it's not much trouble. Wouldn't want to keep you boys from a case."

"Sherlock is sulking in his room anyway," John say, as they make their way up the stairs and into the kitchen. 

"Is he now?" She just smiles, rocking Rosie on her chest. She is perfectly calm in the woman’s arms. Maybe that is what Rosie misses with her fits of screams lately. A woman’s touch. 

John dismisses the idea as he takes the cups from the cupboard. He automatically takes his and Sherlock's favourite mug, then stills and ads one for Marcy as well. 

The tea is served after a while, Rosie calm and on the verge of sleep in Marcy's hands. John is left with one cup left for Sherlock not even understanding why he made it in the first place. Habit, maybe He hesitates, doors to Sherlock's room still firmly closed. 

"Go on then, he will be glad." Marcy smiles, verbally pushing him from the room. John gathers his courage. Apparently, she hadn't lived with Sherlock for a long time. Disturbing his work is a dangerous fling. Not for the faint-hearted. 

But her reassuring smile makes him take the few steps to his bedroom door. First he knocks, waiting for few moments, before turning his head back to Marcy. 

"Just go," she flings her hand in the air toward the door. John sighs and opens it.

The room is a bit chilly, with a window open for some reason. Sherlock is curled on the bed, back to him. 

"Sherl-" the loud, bit prolonged breathing surprises him. He slowly comes to bed, setting the steaming mug on Sherlock's bedside table. 

Sherlock is curled on his bed, eyes closed, his hands close to his body, knees almost touching his chin. He is fast asleep.  There are few books and unreasonable amount of post-it notes around him. There's one stuck on his hair.  John just sighs at the picture and tries to clear the space in Sherlock's proximity.  He takes the sticky note from his hair, careful not to startle him if he wakes. He doesn't. 

John reaches for his curls, putting them from his forehead. Still nothing. 

He closes the window and draws the blinds. He gathers the books and puts them next to bed, post it notes all over the bed, stuck to Sherlock and under him. Nothing he can do about that now. 

When he turns to leave, he realises he is not alone. Marcy is standing in the door, Rosie in her arms asleep as well. 

They smile at each-other, sharing something more in that smile, some kind of heart-felt understanding, and John closes the door behind them. 

 

~*~

 

 

That morning at Baker Street is unusual. John wakes on the sofa at Sherlock staring at him from his chair at the other side of the room. He looks puzzled, hands gasped under his chin. 

"What?" John groans. 

"Why is my mother here?" Sherlock asks. 

"She came to help last night. Mycroft tipped her off." 

Sherlock scowls. 

"Don't be ridiculous." John sits on the sofa. He is too old for sleeping like this, every part of his body hurts.

"She cleans," Sherlock says annoyed. 

"At least somebody," John huffs, feeling bad for letting Marcy clean here. He should have to do it when she came yesterday. 

"She put my books back to the bookcase," Sherlock continues. John looks at the bookcase next to their television, that is now full and there aren't any books all over the room in piles. 

"We should invite her more often," John smirks. 

"She is cooking," Sherlock concludes coldly. John smells something deliciously reminding breakfast in the air. He hadn't had a breakfast in so long. Living with Sherlock is hard. 

"Can I keep her?" He asks cheerfully. 

"Of course you are keeping me, John!"  Marcy laugh from behind him. He turns to find the woman standing in the kitchen doors, spatula in her hand and flowery apron over her designer pants and a shirt. Where in the bloody hell she found that? John is almost certain they didn't have any aprons in the house. Sherlock burned the last one using it to put out fire from his experiment. And it wasn't flowery. Or had a lace. 

"Good morning," Marcy kisses his cheeks, patting Sherlock's shoulder on her way back to the kitchen. She smells like bacon and eggs, what pulls John up, from his nest on the sofa.

The scene in the kitchen is lovely. Marcy at the stove, turning the omelettes, Rosie in her high chair already eating, two steaming mugs at the table, book on bee-keeping opened next to one of them. John takes it all in and has to support himself against the table, because he suddenly feels light-headed. 

A hand on his back brings him to reality again and he feels sudden overwhelming feeling of happiness. He draws his shoulder blades closer, untying the knot in his back, he wasn't even aware he had, and leans closer to the touch. Sherlock massages gentle circles into his skin. 

"Bacon, John?" Marcy looks at him with huge grin on her face. John just manages to nod and seats himself. 

Marcy brings two big steaming plates to them, proper English breakfast with buttered toast and all. John just silently gapes at all that. 

Sherlock, on the other hand, digs right in. 

"You are eating," john observes with wonder. Sherlock just smiles, his mouth full. 

"What about the case?" John asks bewildered. 

"Solved it this morning. Took me long enough, since I couldn't find that last soddy post-it!" 

John fishes for that one note he took from Sherlock's forehead last night. It's still inside pocket of his sweatpants. Better get rid of the evidence. 

"Did you text Estrada?" 

"Right away. He was here when you were still sleeping. Mother made him coffee and did her own interrogation." Sherlock chuckles. John just shakes his head and starts on his breakfast. The feeling of unusual normalness still nagging on his brain. 

 

~*~

 

Marcy makes a habit of dropping in some days. She visits on Sundays and makes dinner and any other day she just appears from thin air. John finds her chatting with Mrs. Hudson downstairs, putting Rosie to sleep on weekdays or waiting for him and Sherlock late night after a case. It's most peculiar dynamic, not unwelcoming at that. 

Sherlock doesn't seem to mind, even if he makes a crude comment about her mother’s dabbling into cleaning. She just smacks him with whatever cleaning supplies she has at hand. 

John doesn't mind, but it takes a tool on their privacy at the times. She walks on him one evening getting out of the shower or washes his underwear every other week and John gets notably frustrated when she comments on the state of his room. 

In conclusion, they don't mind  _but..._  and there's that but still sitting at the back of Johns mind, still bugging him, telling him they should talk about it. 

They do, months after this weird arrangement starts. Sherlock is out at Bart's, Marcy is in the house, having a quiet moment with a book. John is back from surgery, exhausted, longing for peace and quiet and, strangely,  _Sherlock_. Instead, he finds his mother sprawled in Sherlock's chair. 

"Evening, John." She just chimes, not taking her eyes from the book. 

John grunts, putting his coat on the hanger. Rosie is playing on the rug with some trains and power ranger figurines. Weirdest child ever. 

John sits across older Holmes with a resignation, longing to put his feet up to the end of the other chair. If Sherlock had been sitting there, he would. 

"What is the problem, John?" Marcy asks, observant as ever. John doesn't know how to approach the subject. He groans and touches the space between his nose and forehead with his thumb. 

"Why are you here, Marcy?" He asks. 

Mrs Holmes pauses. 

"Don't take me wrong, we appreciate what you are doing for us. I just want to understand why."

Marcy looks sad, almost guilty under her reading glasses. She opens her mouth to speak and then closes them again. 

"I love Sherlock and I grow fond of you, as you were my own.” she starts.

“We made peace with Fred that there will be no grandchildren, our sons being what they are. But then you brought Rosie along." 

John squirms in his chair and gets ready to protest, to say anything. But Marcy beats him. 

"I know you will retort you and Sherlock are not a couple and it's not what I am suggesting. That is your private matter. But Having Rosie as my grand-daughter at least for a while was the most incredible experience."

John sighs, running his hand through his hair in frustration. 

"Yes, we are not a couple. And yes, I understand the desire to have your grandkids close. But we need space. We... me and Sherlock, I mean, need to figure this one out on our own."

Marcy just blinks at him, knowing look forming on her lips: "Oh?"

"What I am trying to say is, we are not a couple, but we are parents. Sherlock is as much parenting figure in Rosie's life as I am. And we need space to raise her as we see fit." John fiddles with his fingers. 

"I understand, John." Marcy puts a hand on his knee reassuringly. But that feeling of home is incomplete somehow, in that moment. Even with a daughter playing beside him and loving mother by his side. 

Then the doors open and Sherlock bursts in, intense as ever, his eyes shining. 

John looks at him and despite trying really hard to remain serious, a huge grin spreads on his face. 

"Had fun?" He asks, shifting his focus and his whole body towards Sherlock. 

"Tremendous!" Sherlock concludes and kisses his mother on the cheek, then Rosie too and seats himself on the armrest of John's chair. There's a perfectly good couch right there that nobody seems to use. John swears he will get rid of it one day. 

"Good," John just says, putting one hand around Sherlock as to keep him steady on the armrest

"Now that you are home, I might as well say my farewells. Mycroft is sending his car already, I'm sure." Marcy gets up from her chair, but Sherlock doesn't seem to be eager to sit there. 

"Leaving so soon?" He asks note of sarcasm in his voice. 

"Behave, Sherlock. We will see each other next Sunday. You and John are coming to a nice family dinner, isn't that right, John?"

John just looks at her confused. The mischievous grin on her face goes to lengths telling a story. Vengeance, then. Seems fair. 

"Yes we will," he nods obediently.

"Good." Marcy smiles, taking her purse from the coffee table. Just then John notices her bag by the door. She already packed.  Leave it to Holmes to deduce the situation. Clever. 

"See you boys in a week and so." She kisses Rosie on her way out. There's quiet in the room after. Stunned silence. 

"Why did you promise my mother we will visit them?" Sherlock asks, bewildered. 

"Sherlock, please?" John massages his temples, frustrated and buries his head into his side. Sherlock puts his hand on Johns' head cautiously and pats his hair. 

"Long day?" He asks, trying to sound like a person for a change. 

"Long life," John concludes, muffled by the textile of Sherlock’s shirt. At least he smells nice; like their detergent, like tea and chemicals, maybe too much formaldehyde, but mostly home. Sherlock draws long, soothing circles into John’s skin on his neck and scalp and he relaxes under the touch. But by the time he completely melts into Sherlock, Rosie starts crying because one of her action figures apparently found their way under the couch. John will set that bloody thing on fire one day. 

 

~*~

 

After Marcy's departure, life on 221 gets a little complicated, much more hectic but a lot more satisfying. John got back to his old routines of caring for Rosie and Sherlock at the same time, making sure one of the eats and the other sleeps and vice-versa. Sherlock started gathering take-out menus again and conducting a study with variables depending on taste, price, delivery time and who knows what else. John doesn’t pay it much attention as long as Sherlock orders the food and actually eats it. 

Rosie returned to her all-night sleep, since John was so exhausted from the cases, he mostly slept through her crying. Sometimes he woke to Sherlock pacing around the room, rocking her in his arms, whispering sweet nothings into her ear. 

John always watched these small bursts of parenthood that Sherlock was willing to discern, bewildered at the sight. His heart always ached as it was about to explode and his fingers trembled with desire to embrace them both. 

Sherlock held Rosie close to his chest, nose just a bit up as if he was beaming with pride. He looked so much as his mother in these moments, that John started to muse how he ever doubted this man and his parenting abilities. He trusted him more with his daughter -their daughter- than he ever trusted Mary. No wonder at that, his ex-wife turned out to be homicidal psychopath. But nothing could prepare John for the aching love he felt for his love at 221B when he saw Sherlock rocking Rosie, planting kisses on top of her head. 

"Come here," he would say and they would climb into his bed and lie there until late morning, Sherlock would bring tea back up after he got bored and Rosie started being fussy and hungry. They would drool biscuits on John's pillow, talking about a case or just chatting about anything. John felt more relaxed in these moments than he ever did. He finally let himself feel the civilian life, leaving war and carnage in the past. They still had thrilling cases, dangerous cases, but Sherlock became more cautious, phoning Lestrade before diving head first into the danger. And before the really tough ones, John saw him putting Rosie’s medical record and any other paper documentation somebody would need, into a folder on a coffee table by the door. It broke his heart a little every time. 

They had Sunday dinners at Holmes’s house if there wasn't a pressing case at the moment. With both Sherlock parents fussing over Rosie, John had a bit of peace and quiet to drink his tea, catch up at politics and medical journals, or just enjoy home-cooked food and a drink. He grown very fond of Marcy's cooking and Fred's excellent taste in wines. They traded tips often after a good meal. Even Sherlock seemed more relaxed in his parents company now. Still strained and observant when his mother proceeded to suggest something to him, as her simple words could hex him into doing something he didn't want to do. And so often they actually did. John made a mental note to trade tips on putting that spell on Sherlock. 

More often than talking about them, they just traded stories about Rosie. How she could now name all the colours, even those John had no idea existed (Sherlock's work), how she ate without a fuss now (John’s achievement and he planned to implement that training on Sherlock as well), how she started listening to classical music (Sherlock's influence), how she could dress herself except the shoes (John) and how she started loving dancing (Marcy and maybe a bit of Sherlock in there). She was growing fast. She even learned to say ‘elementary’ and it became her favourite word. No need to point out whose mistake that was. She would always exclaim " _Elementary, daddy!_ "  when John asked a question. He would then proceed to growl at Sherlock, not really mad anymore. Some kids simply had their defiant phase when the only thing they would mutter was no. John's daughter had an elementary phase it would seem. It was only proper, growing up with Holmes’s. Sherlock never could hide his triumphant smirk when that word escaped her lips. 

 

At the late December, when Christmas was coming again, John and Sherlock were in the middle of a case again, when a fancy envelope arrived at 221. 

_Mr. John and Sherlock Watson Holmes_  it was addressed and John just scowled at the improper phrasing. 

It was a dinner party invitation for Christmas. Very formal, bit coldly phrased, John concluded after reading it. Just as he put it back at the coffee table, his telephone rang. 

"John, dearest," it was Marcy, her voice chirpy as ever. 

"Hello, Marc," he smirked. 

"I take it as you received our dinner invitation. I'm so sorry, I didn't plan to send one to you as well, wanted to invite you in person this Sunday. But my secretary send them to everybody on the list, including my sons, it seems." Of course she had a secretary. 

"It's alright Marcy."

"So will you come, dear?" She asked, bit too excited. 

"Will be our pleasure." John smiled across the room on bewildered Sherlock, which was looking at him as deer at the headlights. 

"Looking forward to it then. Kiss Rosie for me!"

"Will do!"

He put the phone down and looked at Sherlock again. 

"Absolutely not!" Sherlock exclaimed. 

"We are there every Sunday for dinner anyway." John didn't understand his sudden reaction. 

"But this will be a dinner party. One of my mother’s dinner parties! They are always grand and tedious and you feel like a lab rat on all of them."

Why?" John asked, critical. 

"Because that is what she does. Runs experiments on people. Puts them in some kind of situation, simulates patterns in behaviour and watches them dance."

"You like dancing," John just smirks. 

"Not her kind of dancing!"

They got into a fight then, not really important one, just bickering ending with Sherlock huffing on a sofa and John sitting relaxed in his chair. Needless to say who won. 

"She will still do something evil." Sherlock mutters from the sofa. 

"She is your mother, not a witch!" John laughs. There's just silence after that. 

 

 ~*~

In upcoming week they bought presents for each family member they considered fit, decorated Christmas tree at 221B (Sherlock put small objects like additional microscope screws, small scalpels and forceps. John made him put it down later for baby safety) and at Christmas Eve, they made their drive to Holmes’s estate to attend the party. Marcy called week before to tell them they will be spending the night and make sure they pack accordingly. Sherlock protested so John made him wear Christmas jumper for two days straight. 

It wasn't that much people at Holmes’s when they arrived, promptly late because Rosie was crying and Sherlock was sulking in his Christmas jumper and refused to wear a suit. He grown fond of that bloody thing and John considered disposing of it by dumping it on his way to take out the trash. He didn't, because Sherlock would sulk even more and they would never leave the house. 

They were swamped by handful of relatives at the doors and a few faces that even Sherlock didn't know. He deduced one of the older men to be his father’s business partner, a younger woman being some kind of government low-life accompanying Mycroft and a younger man being her mother’s...  _how did he put it_ , interior decorator? The most surprising of them all was Gregory Lestrade, hanging in the corner of the salon and dining room, brightening by the sight of them. 

"Glen!" Sherlock exclaimed making his way to him. He suffered a very harsh poke to his ribs from John at that. 

"Sherlock, John!" They shook hands and exchanged Christmas pleasantries. Or mostly John and Lestrade did, since Sherlock was still glaring at John for the hard poke. 

"What are you doing here?" Asked John. 

"Got invited apparently. Marcy send invitation to Mycroft extending it specifically to me."

John's eyebrow danced upwards at the first name base with Mrs. Holmes. 

"Didn't know you two knew each other," he concluded. 

"John, please, it's my mother. She meddles to every relationships my brother and I ever had. There's fat chance she would miss her chance on scheming on this front as well," Sherlock put his hand on Greg's shoulder, as in condolences. 

"I don't really mind," he smirked. 

"Oh, you will with time. But either way, congratulations. As long as it makes you happy. "

"Very happy, Sherlock. Thank you."

They shared an awkward smile and it was the most bizarre exchange John ever witnessed. Or he was just missing the context. 

By the time he could ask, Sherlock moved along in the crowd and John followed him. 

"What was that about?" He asked, getting further from Lestrade and closer to the table at the other side of the room that was lined with drinks. 

"As always, you see but you don't observe." Sherlock put a glass of rocks into his hand and poured him scotch. He snatched a flute of champagne for himself. 

"Not getting an explanation anytime soon, I suppose?"

Sherlock just smirked, leaning against the table and putting his elbows on it for support. It was the perfect crowd watching spot, but his eyes were fixed on John. 

"You will have to figure this one out yourself, my young Boswell."

John just smirked at the backhanded compliment that Sherlock served to him. He stepped closer to him, reaching for more rocks, but really just wanting to touch his arm. Sherlock caught his hand in the motion; First the wrist, then his finger stroked his palm and then he let him go, distracted by some interesting people arguing in the room. 

John pondered about his vigorously beating heart searching the crowd for his daughter. She ran to the kitchen upon their arrival to snatch cookies from Marcy and they got separated as she was in good hands. Now, he wasn't so sure he wanted to be without her to hold close to him tonight. It would occupy his hands before he could think about other things to do with them. 

 

~*~

 

They sat down to eat after the social mingling. There was 18 places set at the table, but only 17 people seated. One place by Sherlock's side was empty. 

"Something's coming," Sherlock concluded after glaring at his mother for a while. She and Fred were seated at the opposite heads of the table. Rosie by her right, then John and Sherlock. On other side was Mycroft, Lestrade and the government official which name John forgot the second she said it. She was a peculiar thing, that woman. Pretty enough to caught his eye, but shy and for some reason not worth remembering at all. The type you wouldn't ask for a number. 

They were in the middle of serving starters when doors to the dining room opened again. Heads turned in that direction as a man walked inside, huge grin spread on his face. He was a dashing man, the kind of face you wouldn't forget. Blonde with a hint of darker colour in his sleek, mid-length hair and face of an old-timey movie start that should only be seen by the side of Audrey Hepburn or Debbie Reynolds. The James Dean kind of guy. He was even wearing a suit in Oscar-worthy fashion, very much old Hollywood. 

"Victor!" Marcy exclaimed. 

"Marc!" He responded, turning his head to Sherlock with the words. A wide grin spread on his face, the one that could be both a Movie star smile and primal manifestation of hunger on an animal. Teeth out, lips drawn back. 

"Sherlock," he said, much huskier, drowning the word in his low tone of voice. John’s hands curled into fists under the table. 

"Victor," Sherlock nodded, coldly. 

"So good to see you after the years. Where have you been hiding?" Victor promptly seated himself next to Sherlock and the serving of food continued as if it never was interrupted. 

"Living my life," Sherlock said, turning his head to John slightly as if giving a signal or pleading for help. 

There was a hand on the back of his chair in an instant, John turning his body toward Sherlock and Victor. John’s knee bumped into Sherlock's in that action and Sherlock adjusted his seating to press wider part of their legs together. John measured the intruder with long, hard look. Right, so he will have to deal with this weirdness later. 

"Having a new protector, I see. Mycroft finally gave up the position?" Victor laughed. From the other side of the table, Mycroft glared first at them and then at his mother. 

"And you are?" John asked sweetly, putting a thumb against Sherlock’s back right in the middle of his shoulder blades and massaging small circles into his skin. Sherlock looked at him, wild-eyed. Maybe it was a pop of mischief there as well, that John could catch in that brief moment. 

"Didn't darling Sherlock tell you?" Victor sneered, mimicking the threatening, cold look John gave him just a moment ago. John's lips created a thin line across his face. Impenetrable. 

"An old friend of course," Victor laughed, putting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He promptly shook it off. 

"Right," John concluded, as it was time to eat. His hand however stayed at the back of Sherlock's chair, as he seized the fork into his left hand and struggled to scoop his food. Sherlock seated himself to the back, leaning into his touch more and John patted his arm. They looked at each other, silent questions escaping John and plies not to dig to far into it coming from Sherlock. 

They were trough they second course and John returned to using both hands for eating and mostly assisting his daughter in eating her food, when Sherlock nervously shifted at his seat and coughed. John glanced to his direction and noticed a hand plastered on his knee. It was just there, in the middle of Christmas dinner, Victor's hand making his way up and down Sherlock's tight. 

John exhaled, rather loudly, to calm his rising temper. 

"Something wrong, sweethearts?" Marcy chimed from her seat. 

"No," Sherlock muttered through his teeth. His face was mostly neutral but John saw the firmly set jaw and uncomfortable clench of his fists. 

"Perfectly fine, Marc. Dinner is marvellous, as it always is." Answered Victor with a cheery voice. 

That seemed to satisfy her, as she returned to the conversation with Mycroft and Greg. It was mostly Mycroft answering questions for gaping Gregory. 

Victor leaned to Sherlock after he made sure, Marcy's interest was completely lost to both men at the other side at the table. He seemed to whisper something that made Sherlock tense in his seat. He then draws away from him, watching closely as if expecting a reaction. John bit his lip rather hard. 

Sherlock was still tensed, strained as if he was about to break when Victor's hand made its way unmistakably upwards his tight. John considered intervening, but before he could make his decision, Sherlock jumped upwards, as if he was suddenly startled and the whole table shook under the force of his movement. 

"Excuse me," he muttered, his voice a strange mix of panic and helplessness, as he walked out of the room. 

"Excuse me," John said, after the whole room looked at him for an explanation, and bolted after Sherlock. 

He found him in the living room, curled on the couch. His hands were shaking and he was looking at them with wonder. 

"Hey," John said softly from the door. Sherlock’s eyes looked at him startled, as he was a ghost. He relaxed slightly at the sight of his face.

"Hey," he whispered back. 

John closed the door after him and shuffled awkwardly closer, considering if he should sit on the couch or if that would be too much for Sherlock. It seemed Sherlock made that decision for him when he caught his wrist and tugged at it, looking up at him with sad, pleading eyes. John seated himself at the other end of the couch. Sherlock was still holding onto his wrist. 

"What the hell happened back there?" 

Sherlock looked at the floor. 

"Seriously, Sherlock," John covered his hand holding onto him with his other one. Sherlock looked up apologetically. 

"He touched me."

"I saw," John nodded. 

"He is not supposed to do that."

John froze, still holding Sherlock's hand in his. He squeezed. 

"Did he... touch you before?" He asked, carefully. 

"Yes, but that was... before! He is not supposed to touch me now!"

John draws his eyebrows together, a line forming between them: "I don't understand."

"We used to be... _involved_. But we broke up, mostly because I wasn't as... how did he put it? Oh, sex driven, as he was.  I moved on now. "

There was a stunned silence after that statement. Picturing Sherlock Holmes in a relationship. Romantic relationship, of sexual nature. John needed a moment to categorize that information. It made him unreasonably angry. 

"So why shouldn't he touch you now? Maybe he wants to make up for his mistake?"

Sherlock looked at him as he grown a second head. His eyes were shocked and maybe a little angry. 

"How can you say that?" He shouted. The bomb went off, suddenly and without a warning. Sherlock was full on outraged now. 

"How can you say something like that to me after all of this? After years!" 

John looked at him with astonishment, he never seen Sherlock to go off like that. 

"Calm down, I was just-"

"Don't tell me to calm down, Watson!"

Last names basis. This was a disaster. Sherlock was towering above him on the couch, his face furious. John reacted the only way he could think of, putting both his palms against Sherlock's chest and pushed him back into the couch, holding him still. 

"What the hell are you on about?"

"Are we nothing to you, anymore?" Sherlock asked, still livid, his voice breaking at the last word. 

John got caught off guard, suddenly placing all the missing pieces of this conversation together. 

"Sherlock," he muttered softly, "we are not a couple."

Sherlock quirked one eyebrow upwards. John started chewing on his bottom lip. 

"Are we?" John asked after a moment, thinking out loud. 

"In a matter of speaking," Sherlock answered. 

John pulled his hands, not touching Sherlock anymore, and seated himself by his side, defeated.

"I always considered you a family, Sherlock." He said. 

"I consider you a partner. Have for a long time now."

They looked at each other, understanding forming behind John's eyes. 

"Couples traditionally do specific things, Sherlock," he said, trying to salvage the last piece of sanity he had. 

"We do them too. We have dinners, share a living quarters, the expenses, raise a child." 

John shifted closer to him. 

"You know I always considered you a parent to her." 

Small smile forms on Sherlock's lips. 

"But I was talking about the things of more... intimate nature."

Sherlock's smile dies.

"Not always," Sherlock mutters and tries to get up from the couch but John holds him in place. 

"No wait, we need to talk about this!"

Sherlock sighs and sits back down. They are facing each other now, Sherlock seated on his own legs, so he can see all of John from up high. 

"Can you explain to me what are your... _expectations_ from a relationship such as this?" 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I'm not a child, John. I know a sex is expected over time. And I look forward to it. I just don't view intercourse as the primary in a relationship. But I can enjoy it. I would like to enjoy it. With somebody I trust. Somebody like you, John."

John smiles at him, putting a hand against his cheek and stroking. He has many questions. Too many to ask any of them. 

"What about kissing, Sherlock?" He asks instead. He can feel his beating heart. It's trying to escape, clawing its way up his throat. 

"I only wanted to kiss you. For a long time, now. It's always you, John Watson. For any form of physical connection. I ever want to share it with you."

And that is just too much for John. He feels as if he is about to blow from the sheer overwhelming love squeezing all the air from his lungs. He looks at Sherlock, still holding his cheeks and slowly presses his lips against his. They are both smiling into the kiss. Sherlock puts his hands on his shoulders to hold him in place as they part, both giggling for some reason. 

"Good?" John asks. 

"Better," Sherlock mutters, leaning in again. This time they go beyond feathery lip touching, as Sherlock licks into John's mouth suddenly. He is still holding him in place by his shoulders, so when John startles, he just continues kissing. And it's good, better than good. It's almost perfect torture, slow and methodical, precisely calculated. 

This time, they part gasping for air. Sherlock seats himself properly on the couch and John settles between Sherlock's legs, turned to him, so he can kiss a wild trail from his ear to his neck. Sherlock doesn't protest. 

"Why do I feel, like this was all orchestrated?" John asks, settling against Sherlock's chest. 

"Because it was," Sherlock concludes. 

"Not by you, I presume?" John chuckles. 

"Don't be ridiculous, even I'm not that clever and not at all so suave in nuances of human behaviour."

John turns his head then to see if he didn't hallucinate this moment. Sherlock admitting to somebody else being cleverer. His eyes shine in the dark and John kisses him again.

"Your mother, then?" John draws his own deductions. 

"Dear mummy thinks she can play the puppet master," Sherlock smirks, not really protesting. 

"Remind me to say thank you when we get back there."

They both laugh and John sinks deeper into Sherlock's embrace. He looks around the room. He is almost 80% sure there are bloody cameras in this room somewhere, mummy Holmes watching them now and having a grand time. You never know with the Holmes’s. 

He looks at Sherlock again, a small smile forming on his lips: "Do I get to call you boyfriend now?"

Sherlock scowls at him. 

"I prefer partner actually.”

“I like the implications of that word. You never know what it means. Are they in an intimate relationship, robbing a bank together?"

They laugh. Yes, that’s seems fitting. He can't stop thinking how he didn't ask for this relationship, he simply woke up one day and was in it, without realising it apparently. So it seemed just right their own first kiss won’t be like others. After the life they led, full of excitement, thrill and adrenaline, slow, methodical kisses were anything but what John imagined their first kiss will be. No nervous looks and lustful touches, no teeth bumping in the heat of eagerness. Sherlock kissed softly, lovingly, like husbands kiss. He kissed and licked into his mouth with method and intent, stroking John's cheek as he turned him as he saw fit. 

And yes, John did imagine. At the years, his mind went through all the stages of their relationship, from the first infatuation to settling into this parenting life. He got to this stage even without his own consent. Settled into almost married life.  They didn't skip any of it, they just didn't live it. And dreaming a relationship seemed just like the crazy thing they would do in the end. 

They kiss again and then again and so many times until their lips are burning with the sensation, until John has memorised how Sherlock Holmes kisses. And he is a bloody good kisser.

John settles against Sherlock's chest, burying his head into his body, hiding his nose in the nape of his neck. He smells like tea, him and death. It seemed almost ridiculous, that John has grown fond of formaldehyde smell, but that was exactly what he loved. This ridiculous man. This madman, his madman.  

He takes his hand, their fingers entwined, and kisses the knuckle on his ring finger, hoping he doesn't have to say more. Sherlock looks down at him with a question in his eyes.  John knows he will have to do this right one day. Get down on one knee and ask, stand in front of Fred and Marcy as he should. And one day he will. One day he will put a ring on that finger currently entwined with his own. But for now on they will be just this. John Watson and the madman. John and Sherlock Holmes. A family. 


End file.
